“Oh, my dear Miss Dalton,” burst forth Mrs. Mowbray, “that is the very reason why I have so in—sist—ed on seeing you. To explain, you know—for there is nothing like an explanation.”
“You may spare yourself the trouble,” said Edith. “I do not want any more explanations.”
“Oh, but you positively must, you know,” said Mrs. Mowbray, in her most airy manner.
“Pardon me. I wish to hear nothing whatever about it.”
“It's that sad, sad boy,” said Mrs. Mowbray, coolly ignoring Edith's words, “and deeply has he repented. But do you know, dear, it was only his fondness for you. Pos—i—tive—ly nothing else, dear, but his fondness for you. Oh, how he has talked about it! He says he is willing to give up his right eye, or hand—I really forget which—to recall the past. My poor dear boy is very impetuous.”
“Mrs. Mowbray, I do not wish to be unkind or rude, but you really force me to it.”
“He's impetuous,” said Mrs. Mowbray, without noticing Edith, “but he's warm-hearted. He's a most affectionate son, and he is so affectionate toward you. It's all his fondness for you.”
“Mrs. Mowbray, this is intolerable.”
“Oh, Miss Dalton, you don't know—you really don't know. He has loved you ever since he first saw you—and so true! Why, he dotes on you. He was afraid that he would lose you. You know, that was the reason, why he interfered. But he says now most distinctly that he thinks his interference was quite un—war—rant—a—ble—quite, I assure you; my dear Miss Dalton.”
Edith sat looking at this insolent woman with a clouded brow, not knowing whether to order her out of the house or not. But Mrs. Mowbray seemed beautifully unconscious of any offense.